


Birthday Surprise

by HC_AnonA



Series: The royalty!AU no one asked for [1]
Category: Hermitcraft RPF
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Anal Sex, Coming Untouched, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Dom/sub Undertones, First Time Blow Jobs, Intercrural Sex, Making Out, Morning After, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Multiple Partners, Orgy, Pet Names, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Rough Oral Sex, Slight Overstimulation, Slut Shaming, Spitroasting, Strap-Ons, Tango calls Zed buttercup, That's it, Well that's one way to lose your v card Zed, degradation kink, good job, like maybe there's the hint of a plot, some weird mix of fluff and crack at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:15:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25066771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HC_AnonA/pseuds/HC_AnonA
Summary: Having the king, a close friend, throw a masked ball for his birthday is an honour, Zedaph knows, but everything about this celebration is, seemingly, just so mind-numbingly, soul-wrenchingly monotonous that he can't help but wander about in hopes of something more interesting cropping up.But maybe Zedaph shouldn't peep behind closed doors, because the Gods only know what kind of situation he might find himself in.
Relationships: Others/Zedaph (Video Blogging RPF), ZIT, Zedaph (Video Blogging RPF)/ImpulseSV/Tango Tek
Series: The royalty!AU no one asked for [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1902079
Comments: 24
Kudos: 103





	Birthday Surprise

**Author's Note:**

> 'I love dangling stuff', Zed said in his most recent episode, thus I shall take it upon myself to dangle him :)  
> aka. A. writes a fic and gushes over historical-inspired aesthetics and architecture but porn. A lot of porn.

The muted sound of music from downstairs should probably mean that they need to hurry up, that the celebration, with its guests lining the edges of the ornate ballroom, most likely chatting next to the food tables, and its orchestra tucked into one of the corners on a stage decorated with intricate arrangements of flowers and candles, all waiting for their arrival, is just about to start, but Zedaph doesn’t much care, not when the laces of the corset are being pulled so tight that the boning of it digs into his shift-covered ribs, not when the room _reeks_ of expensive rose perfume, which, in all honesty, he usually likes, but this, all of it, is just too much. He sighs and rests a hand on the exaggerated divet of his corseted waist, the silver rings adorning his fingers, denoting his status, or at least, his unofficial place in the political hierarchy, as well, glistening in the pale moonlight streaming in from the high window taking over one of the just as grand walls of the large bedroom.

‘Oh, quit your fussing’, Grian says, suddenly, and Zedaph can hear the smile on his face, so he crosses both arms over his chest, turning his nose up at the ceiling.

‘Oh, easy for you to say, you’re not tied up to your neck in all these... ’, Zedaph begins, irony mixing with a little bit of breathlessness, but he stops as he thinks of the proper word to use in this context.

‘Nice things?’, Grian offers and Zedaph thinks that he might just be able to spot the inside of his own brain if he rolls his eyes any further.

‘ _Useless_ things’, Zedaph says, instead, and he feels Grian give one last tug at the laces, tying them in a neat little bow at his tailbone, ‘Everyone else wears just a normal, well tied corset, but _no_ , I must have my organs rearranged in order to - what, exactly, might I ask?’

Grian turns him around with his hands on Zedaph’s shoulders, his smile blinding and his black eyes glistening from underneath his dark blonde fringe, his eyebrows quirked in a mischievous, typical expression that has Zedaph sighing, while also smiling fondly. For once, Zedaph has to look down, slightly, because Grian had decided that giving him heeled boots as well will make sure that Zedaph will have absolutely no way of dancing through the night, lest someone carry him in their arms while doing so.

‘Well, it _is_ your birthday’, Grian says in a sing-song voice, twirling as gives Zedaph one last look before walking towards the dressing room to their right, the gold-patterned edges of his coat catching the light in a way that makes them shine, his boots clicking against the mosaic floor pleasantly, ‘And _I_ want you to look breathtaking.’

‘Oh, of course, well why didn’t you say so, your Majesty? I would have surely been happier to get all dolled up, then’, Zedaph chimes in, careful to underline his dramatics with over the top happiness, as he makes his way to the wardrobe as well, Grian having already entered, humming a melody as he, no doubt, looks for the most beautiful and most painful coat for Zedaph to wear, if the high boots, overly laced corset and dark, altogether, _too tight_ trousers are anything to go by. 

'Z, you're a friend of the king and if that isn't shown in how much lavishness I can shower you with for your birthday, then I must be doing something wrong', Grian sings to the rhythm of his humming and, suddenly, a hand shoots out from the wardrobe and pulls Zedaph in, almost having him stumble in all of his heeled and corseted glory. Alas, Zedaph is presented with rows upon rows of shoes, some tipped with steel, most likely for the less _fancy_ affairs a king must deal with, and stands dressed to the nines, silk and brocades in all colours making Zedaph gasp.

'This still… Seems a bit _much_ ', Zedaph confesses, the hint of insecurity that he'd been harbouring ever since Grian had announced that he'd throw a masquerade ball in honour of his friend, obvious in his tone.

'Oh, Zedaph, you poor, innocent soul', Grian looks around, grin widening as he spots whatever it is he'd been looking for, 'I assure you, you deserve all this and so much more.'

Zedaph just shrugs, but he cannot deny the fact that Grian's smile is very much contagious. Grian beckons him to one of the inner shelves, a nook where, not surprisingly, even more coats, dresses, shifts and shirts are hanged about in a way that’s less sorted than the rest of the wardrobe and more messy, the way he’d expect Grian’s _personal_ closet to be, rather than the one organised by the house staff. Zedaph is taken out of his thoughts by a heavy material hitting him in the face, the little pearls and crystals embedded into the hem and the seams quite painful, but, as Zedaph takes it off of his face, the brocade of it an indention under his fingers, he gasps.

‘Grian, this is...’, Zedaph whispers, voice a bit choked up because it is a _beautiful_ garment, and Zedaph glances at Grian’s own outfit, at the way the red satin is accentuated by the gold thread trim and the pure white lace cuffs that reach his ringed knuckles, it’s something Grian, _the king_ , should be wearing, not Zedaph, just an old friend, a mere son of a countess, but what he is looking at right now is a long coat of heavy patterned violet, the swirls of black woven into the material tricking the eye into seeing patterns within the patterns, its hems carefully sown with silver decorations that wrap around the beads and gems to hold them in place and to add yet another level of detail that Zedaph is sure would cost more than, well. It would be pricey, to say the least.

‘It’s perfect’, Grian leaves Zedaph to his amazed gaping for a minute or so before actually replying. He pats his shoulder and, when Zedaph looks down at him, the grin from earlier has softened into a genuinely happy smile, ‘Happy birthday, Zedaph.’

* * *

The ballroom is just as grand and just as filled with people from all walks of life as Zedaph had expected, all of them wearing masks, some looking more expensive than others, but the elegance of which is moreso seen in the way the most people dance about to the soft music the orchestra is playing, some hanging around the food tables, the ones looking for political favours, most likely, some heading for the large dark oak doors, most likely planning a romantic stroll with their partner for the night. Zedaph himself is currently caught in a conversation with an aged man, dressed from head to toe in black and blue, no doubt a silk merchant by the look of the materials of his suit and the navy ribbon holding dark gray hair back in a loose ponytail at the nape of the man’s neck. Between long fingers, he twirls a glass of champagne, the pale rose liquid already halfway gone, and his voice is smooth, his face nicely angular, truly, he is a wonder to look at, but he is so _boring_.

Zedaph has to hold back a yawn as he adjusts his mask, the porcelain covering his whole face awfully constrictive, but the manners taught to him since before he could even walk keep him looking at the man and nodding interestedly, as if Zedaph weren’t mentally delecting himself with the cupcakes arranged on a plate laid out on the table at the other end of the room. He’s talking about something related to trade routes and, honestly, it might have even been an interesting topic, but the inflectionless voice is too - well, not too _much_ , that’s for sure - for Zedaph to bear even a _second_ longer, so he downs the rest of his champagne in a way a way he knows isn’t all too proper, but Zedaph is beyond done at this point, no longer willing to actually care.

The man opens his mouth to say something, his mask only covering his eyes and leaving the frown all the more visible for it, but Zedaph cuts him of with the little laugh that the nobility is known for when it comes to hiding their intentions, instead.

‘Oh, you’ll have to excuse me, sir’, Zedaph puts the empty glass down, resting a ringed hand on his hip and keeping his chin tilted up, even if, given the heels, he can actually look at the man eye to eye, ‘You see, I promised my friend, _the king_ , that I would meet up with him just about now.’

His mouth snaps shut in less than a second after Zedaph mentions Grian and it might be then that he realises the flaw in his plan of trying to accomplish some very obvious social climbing through Zedaph. With a polite smile that the man can’t see through the mask, but that Zedaph is all too used to forcing on his face, he leaves, the coat too heavy to flutter behind him, mostly just accompanying his steps with small bobs of the material and to the sound of the jewels clinking against each other. The smile fades into a neutral expression as he looks about the room, ignoring some of the heads turning, no doubt filled with ideas of the same caliber as the silk trader’s, but Zedaph spots red and gold just next to the large doors leading outside, Grian holding the hand of a tall figure draped in black as well, but the red accents on the other man's garments catch the light beautifully. He cannot hear them from this far away, but he can tell that Grian is giggling as he drags his newest conquest to the gardens. Zedaph is sure that Grian’s double is still in the ballroom, but he’s learned to spot the difference, anyways, so he decides that he should leave his friend to it. Grian has enough stress for ten people, he should, at least, get to enjoy the party, even if Zedaph isn’t.

Zedaph hums under his breath and heads for those cupcakes he saw earlier, grabbing another flute of champagne from one of the passing waiters, thanking them in a small voice.

This celebration is beautiful, Zedaph won’t deny it, but he knows that he doesn’t belong here, amongst all these people, amongst these nobles, who know exactly how to use any event for their own needs, or amongst the common people that Grian always extends an invitation to, who have come to dance and to enjoy themselves.

Zedaph feels a bit lonely as he piles some desserts on a small platter and, before taking a bite of one of the cupcakes, he finishes the champagne in a matter of gulps. Munching on the soft, somehow still slightly warm, chocolate treat, Zedaph eyes another one of the waiters and their platters filled to the brim with drinks that never seem to end.

* * *

The garden is out of the question, since Zedaph doesn’t particularly feel like allowing the cold wind outside to turn him into one of the ice statues that have been sculpted and carefully laid onto the food tables, especially since he doesn’t have a partner to keep him warm for the night and he doesn’t want to bother Grian, in case they stumble upon each other by accident, either. This night is a celebration for Zedaph as much as it is a break for the young king, and Zedaph always tells him that he should be taking more of those. Standing amongst the dancing crowd, seeing as it isn’t really a skill Zedaph had ever learned to love, especially given, or maybe due to the hours upon hours of dancing lessons he’d been forced into as a young child, and mingling with the nobility aren’t very appealing, either, so Zedaph chooses a completely different option. He exits through one of the side entrances, which is mostly used by the waiters, laying his fourth - no, his fifth - empty glass onto one of the waiters’ silver tray as they carries it back towards the kitchen. He walks through the confusing halls, eyes widening as he returns to the main area of the palace, the design of the supporting pillars, of the banners and even of the doors changing as he goes, the grandiosity shown not through different materials, but rather, through scale.

After a few turns and a few more hallways walked with only the sound of his own boots echoing around him, Zedaph manages to find his way to a large hall, its walls supported by large columns of stone, meeting together to form sharp arches overhead, which prompts Zedaph to lean his head back a little, if only to admire the almost flowerlike patterns they make as they merge. Long windows built out of multiple panes of thick glass stretch across the walls, the top panels made out of stained pieces of the same material which, Zedaph is sure, would make a magnificent image with the sunlight streaming through them, the colour of them breaking down to follow the patterns set by the glass, but now only seem darker yet, the moonlight too weak in comparison to shine through, leaving the only light source inside these neverending halls the torches arranged on the walls and the occasional chandelier. 

When he and Grian meet up in the palace, it’s usually for a walk amongst his simple, but beautiful flower gardens, or a ride through the open fields behind the castle, the edge of which is punctuated by a thick forest of spruce trees, so Zedaph has never really had the time to explore the structure, which he is now rectifying as best as he can, eyes wide and a small expression of awe forming on his face behind the mask. The wooden doors line one of the walls and they are just as intricate as what little Zedaph has seen of the palace, scenes etched into them, some portraying monsters, some, and Zedaph has to stop, a blush spreads over his cheeks, and clear his throat, more errotic scenes, signifying this hallway as one the more serious sections of the castle, probably one meant for guests or allies, maybe, in a time of need. They’re done artfully, befitting for the style of the time, while still keeping a regal sort of detail about them.

Zedaph blinks and goes to look out one of the long windows, making out the orange lights scattered about the estate for the guests and a few vaguely human shapes that the thick, almost misty glass turns into blobs. Even so, it’s peaceful, in a way, and Zedaph leans into the window frame, still feeling the cold metal despite all the layers where he rests his arm on it, which makes him realise just how heated the ballroom and, by extension, the hallways had been. He pushes his forehead against the glass and sighs at the cool feeling, at the way it lets him relax a little.

And then Zedaph hears a cry.

He’s far enough from the ballroom that he cannot hear the music anymore, let alone the nonstop chatter of the people within it, and the way the voice breaks the silence in the gentle way that a stone would meet one of these windows, were it thrown this way, is almost _shocking_ , but Zedaph concludes that it must have come from nearby.

The distressed tone of it has Zedaph turning so fast that he nearly stumbles as he walks down the myriad of doors, shoulders slightly hunched with his attention held by everything around him, walking mostly on his tiptoes in order to not create any additional noise, just in case he hears it again. He does.

It’s two doors to his left and, though Zedaph rushes towards it, almost forgetting to be quiet during the short journey and colliding with the wall, he stops just in front of it, his field of view filled with the intricately carved wood. If something bad is happening in there, and Zedaph gulps as he realises this, Zedaph has no weapons to help out and, even if he did, his fighting skills are basic at their best and downright lacking at their worst. Instead he presses his ear to the door, but he hears no voices, not clearly, at least, only the shuffling of feet and the ruffling of fabric. It has Zedaph raising an eyebrow, as short-lived panic turns to confusion. He pushes himself away from the door, hands staying stifly at his sides again as Zedaph leans down, crouching ever so slightly, which, given the outfit, is a lot harder than it probably looks, and he brings his masked face to the keyhole, moving as slowly and as cautiously as he can. Zedaph has to slap a hand over the porcelain covering his mouth to stifle a short yelp at what he sees, almost falling on his bum as he nearly jumps back, but Zedaph is frozen with shock and all he can do is _keep looking_ , face becoming red beneath the mask, heart rate picking up.

Behind the door, Zedaph sees the sort of room that, were it stripped from all of its furniture, the dark oak worked in a way that displays attention to detail and grandeur, would look enormous, but right now, with beds, smaller and larger, some covered with thick blankets in rich colours, other only consisting of the frame and a bare mattress, strewn about with no observable pattern, chests lining the walls, some doors leading to side rooms, silk hung from the ceiling with sturdy looking metal hooks holding them up and a curtained window, the black material over it not allowing any of the weak light from outside in, only a couple of strategically placed candles illuminating the chamber, and, despite the vast array of lavish decoration and furniture, what makes the room looks so crowded is, in fact, the large number of people filling it, hanging off of every surface, in groups of all numbers, some of them alone, some of them in groups of two, three and more. But all of this wouldn’t be out of place in the castle, Zedaph _knows_ , no, what _is_ out of place is the positions these people are in and what in the Gods’ names they’re _doing._

Zedaph blinks and a breath stutters out of him as he wills himself to move away, but it’s like he is transfixed, watching soft fabric move together with their wearers, naked skin sliding together in a way that Zedaph can only describe as inappropriate, some of the silk ropes above the room holding wrists suspended as the people hung from them writhe in a way that makes Zedaph want to dump a whole bucket of ice over his head. His attention is suddenly yanked and _held_ by a couple of masked strangers sitting on one of the main beds, given its massive size and the sheer amount of pillows it is covered with. Everyone in the room is masked, but most of them have lost at least an article of clothing or two, yet these men are still fully dressed, one of them holding a strip of silk which, Zedaph assumes, blush turning hotter by the minute, he’s just taken down from one of the hooks, the other looking around the room in a way that seems almost _fond_ , but Zedaph can't make out his expression due to the dark red, metal mask covering half of his face.

Zedaph shivers as something passes through him, something that makes his muscles tense up and his heart rate accelerate, even if he’s doing nothing but watching and, Zedaph almost wants to flinch as soft sounds meet his ears, some moans louder, almost bordering on cries of what Zedaph thinks might be pain, which resemble the noises he’s heard earlier, and _listening_. 

Zedaph blinks and forces himself to breathe normally, but as the man who’d been holding the silk rope looks towards the door, sudden fear grips Zedaph and he uses the ringed hands that he’s been using to brace himself against the door to push himself away, because this is too much, people moving together and touching each other like this, in full view of everyone else, this is sinful, having a gathering like this at the palace, it has to be, because this is what Zedaph has been taught to deem distasteful, these open acts of what can only be described as debauchery must be _wrong_.

...Right?

But only moments later does Zedaph come to realise that, in fact, the door he’d been pushing against is not only built to open inwards, but _unlocked_ , the force he puts behind trying to get back on his feet by pushing against it making it swing open and, because Zedaph is taken completely by surprise, a small squeak slipping between his lips as his balance fails him, he falls onto the floor as the door slams against the wall. Zedaph is, suddenly, inside the room.

Dozens of eyes are on him, just like that, with varying degrees of curiosity, shock, annoyance and something else, but the masks barely allow Zedaph to decipher any of the deeper, underlying feelings of the room’s occupants and, as a hush falls over the room for a few terrifying moments, Zedaph think he might have stumbled over some sort of cult in the middle of one of their overtly sexual rituals. He gulps and pushes himself up using his elbows, or at least, attempts to, because a the whole of a shoe lands in the middle of his back and pushes him back down with a gasp.

‘N-no, wait!’, Zedaph pleads as the foot of whoever is holding him down digs into his shoulder blade, the heel of it not too long, but its edge digging into his muscles is still painful, ‘I didn’t mean to- It was an accident, I-’

‘Accident?’, a rough voice asks, low and almost dark with sadistic glee as Zedaph attempts to wiggle from beneath the simple hold, ‘Wandered about an got lost, did you?’

Zedaph nods frantically at the last question, his masked face pressed into the hard wooden floor in a way that becomes painful when the man moves his foot lower, to the small of Zedaph’s back, and _grinds_.

‘I’ll j-just… I won’t tell anyone about what I saw, I won’t…!’, Zedaph tries to offer, but his words come out warbled by a pained exhale. The pressure recedes ever so slightly, but Zedaph feels his heart lodge itself up in his throat the shadow of someone else falls over him, bur from his position, he can’t look up, can only brace himself against the floor with shaking fingers.

‘Now , wait just a second… I know you’, the new man adds with a voice so deep that it rumbles inside Zedaph’s own chest, echoing against his ribcage in a way that he should _not_ find pleasant, but does anyway. However, something else is blooming into his chest, now. _Fear_. Zedaph gulps down the questions of how, why and when, but the second man remains silent for a bit before addressing the room, leaving Zedaph to stew in his own curiosity and panic.

‘We have the situation under control, everyone can return to what they were doing’, his voice is so smooth and Zedaph can almost hear the smile in his voice, even if his tone is cold, commanding, in a way, and the foot on his lower back gives on last push before pulling away. Zedaph takes a second to breathe before pushing himself up cautiously, movements slow, as if he were expecting to just be shoved back onto the floor and held there again. He is, Zedaph is not going to deny that thought, but this time he gets a better look at the two people who had talked to him, feeling the tension like a heavy cloud, getting harder and harder to bear and to breathe through, especially as, slowly, the shifting and moving and moaning start back up again and they almost startle Zedaph, despite their slow crescendo. 

The first man, Zedaph recognises as the one who’d been holding the silk rope, which is now looped around his forearm in large circles, probably ready to be put away, but Zedaph’s focus shifts to a half exposed chest, the man only wearing an unbuttoned tunic, its laces trailing down particularly sculpted pecs, tight, dark red, leather riding trousers hugging his form, which Zedaph tries not to linger on, but the way they frame strong thighs and… _Something else_ leaves no room for imagination. Zedaph blinks slowly, bringing his eyes back up to the man who stands just _slightly_ taller than him still, despite his heeled boots, purple meeting red between both of their masks and Zedaph almost gasps as the expression the man wears, his face only halfway covered, strands of his blonde fringe falling over the red metal mask, which is formed out of wires of metal that form something similar to flames, almost artfully. A sharp grin reveals even sharper teeth and Zedaph has to keep himself from shaking his head. He is beautiful.

But then the second man speaks again and Zedaph feels like the ground lurches from beneath his feet all over again.

‘Tango, close the door, will you? And lock it this time.’

He tries, he really _tries_ to not allow his gaze to trail down, dark grey dress pants and a black coat with a dark yellow pattern on its trims simple, yet elegant and _perfectly_ fitting, showcasing his body perfectly, but then Zedaph looks at his face, only to be met by entirely masked features and these dark brown eyes that stare holes into Zedaph, that feel so intense in their warmth and emotion that their gaze feels like the heat of the actual sun is directed at him. Gods, either the mask is cutting of his oxygen or Zedaph really is losing it over these two men that have him cornered at the entrance of a room that he’s stumbled into while they were performing some sort of perverted ritual and-

The first man, _Tango_ , steps away to close the door and Zedaph jumps as he hears the click of a key being turned in its lock, effectively trapping him here. And yet his fear still feels more surface level than anything, which is almost disorienting in a way.

‘I saw you when the king presented you. You’re his little friend, right?’, the second man asks in a way that seems kind, but his words have an edge to them, and Zedaph’s brain already latches onto the escape route he sees within that simple question, or maybe Zedaph just wants to hear him talk more in his deep, smooth voice.

‘Th-the king wouldn’t agree to… This’, Zedaph stutters out, stepping back, only to have Tango and the other man step closer until his back hits the wall right next to the door with a soft thud.

‘The king wouldn’t- The _king_ ’, it is Tango who responds this time, but a bout of laughter makes him double over as he cackles and, though Zedaph wouldn’t admit it out loud, the mere sound of it has his heart beating a little faster, ‘Buddy, the king _organises_ most of our meetings.’

And, all of a sudden, Zedaph feels as though he’s been struck down with the way shock slams into him. He thinks about Grian and his mischievous grins and affairs and it doesn’t _seem_ out of place, but this- 

This is-

‘But I think he said something about an old friend coming back, so he won’t be here tonight, right Impulse?’, Tango continues and the second man, _Impulse_ , just hums affirmatively in reply. They chuckle together a little and the fear melts around its ragged edges even more when placed next to the warm feeling that prickles over Zedaph’s whole body.

Zedaph opens his mouth to say something, but he isn’t even sure what he _should_ say, so he just shuts it again, shoulders slowly raising up as his muddled feelings present him with all the appropriate reactions that he could exhibit to get out of here, but then a moan, one louder than the others, resonates around the room, and Zedaph can’t help but whip his head in that direction, watching as one of the couples make their way to the side rooms, one of them supporting their partner in a strong grip. Zedaph slowly returns to gazing at his own feet, now, even the tips of his ears bright red.

‘But you really are, aren’t you?’, Impulse whispers in a way that makes it seem like it isn’t even a question, just a statement politely made into one. Zedaph sees no reason to lie, so he nods, but his face is tilted down, eyes firmly glued onto the dark wooden planks of the floor, because Zedaph knows that one look at either of the men in front of him will be his undoing, whatever that even means. The wall feels cool against his back and, given the warmth running through his whole body. Zedaph sees this as a blessing. That is, until an arm plasters itself into the space next to his head, a certain half-masked individual leaning into his personal space in a way that’s _impossible_ for Zedaph to ignore, as those deep red eyes come into view, something gleaming in the gaze he fixes Zedaph with that he can’t quite figure out.

‘Maybe’, Zedaph whispers, then, and Tango’s grin widens, another hand occupying a similar position to the first one on the other side of his head, leading Zedaph to notice that he’s been pinned against a wall by a stranger who seems entirely too happy to do so and _Zedaph doesn’t even mind as much as he should_.

‘Ya hear that, Impulse? We’ve got the birthday boy here tonight!’

And Zedaph realises that, with Tango taking up all of his attention, Zedaph’s self control and attention span seemingly nonexistent at this point, he’s lost track of where Impulse is. Looking over a broad shoulder, which certainly does _not_ deepen Zedaph’s blush, he spots him, right next to the bigger bed of the room, pulling another strip of silk from a drawer built into the side of the bed.

‘Mh-hm. Zedaph, was it?’, Impulse asks as he returns to them, Tango pushing himself to the side a little so Zedaph has a clear view of Impulse, but Zedaph is almost transfixed with both of them so, before he even realises it, he nods. Part of him softens into a gooey substance as Zedaph’s own name, spoken in Impulse’s voice, rings inside his head and echoes like a prayer learned by heart. _Gods damn it all_.

‘Say, Zed, why don’t we… _Celebrate_ you, since you’re already here? In our own way’, Impulse leans in over Tango’s arm still keeping him against the wall, lips so close to Zedaph’s ear as he whispers this that Zedaph can almost feel the shape and warmth of them against his face, but something about the type of celebration these people have in mind has Zedaph questioning so many of the things he’s learned are _wrong_ that , for a second, his head whirls with the mere concept of it, as he sweeps his gaze over the room once more, noting that more of the people have left for the side rooms, but same have still remained, mostly, those tied by their hands to the ceiling, hanging from silk ropes like particularly reactive puppets, as their partners touch them so very openly.

And Zedaph feels the need to say _yes_.

One of Tango’s hands slips down, going from the side of his head against the wall, to resting on his shoulder, and then _lower_ , squeezing a slim hip in a way that Zedaph can feel, even through all the layers. Impulse leans in further and, this time, he is almost sure that he feels something wet and hot brush against his cheek as he speaks.

‘You came here, maybe by accident, but you know what people say about being at right place, don’t you?’

Zedaph gulps and shivers as electricity whizzes through him like lightning through a metal rod, leaving him to hold his breath afterwards. His belly churns with a feeling that Zedaph has always kept carefully hidden from his own mind, but now it surges forward with a vengeance, especially as Tango presses more than a hand on his hip, rather, his whole body against Zedaph’s, and that’s when Zedaph knows that he wants this like a man dying of thirst needs water, like a starving man needs nourishment, needs it as though his life depended on it.

A shakily exhaled yes, after this, is all that two of them need, because then Tango is pulling away and Zedaph feels Impulse’s arms take hold of him instead, one hand supporting his knees, the other his back, as Zedaph is literally swept off of his feet with a yelp and then, unceremoniously, dumped on the bed. More people, other than Tango and Impulse, gather around the bed, and Zedaph really doesn’t want to think about how his excitement doubles at that.

‘Oh, this will be great’, Tango murmurs as he looks down at Zedaph’s, still clothed, still slightly shivery body, sprawled on the bed as it is, ‘You’re going to be _exquisite_ , buttercup.’

And Zedaph isn’t sure where that nickname even came from, but the pressure in his lower abdomen increases, the warmth on his face spreading to his neck in what, Zedaph is sure, is a dark red blush. He _likes_ it.

‘He will be, I’m sure’, Impulse says, letting himself sit on the edge of the bed, back turned to Zedaph as he twirls his piece of silk between his fingers, glancing at Zedaph once before smiling and looking back down at what he’s doing with that rope of his, ‘Though, the way we do things can be a bit much. I want you to tell us to stop if it doesn’t feel good or if you want a break, but...’

Impulse finishes whatever it is he’d been fiddling with and turns to Zedaph, crawling towards him in a way that makes Zedaph feel deliciously helpless, his dark eyes, somehow, getting even darker, the deep shade of brown barely a ring around the enlarged pupils of his eyes.

‘But ever since I saw you there, on that stage, so shy in front of the crowd, I knew. I knew I wanted to see you _wrecked_ ’, Impulse whispers in his ear again and the words alone make Zedaph squirm as he tries to gather himself and prop his body up against the pillows behind him, ‘I really don’t think it’s a coincidence you ended up here. _We’ll enjoy you so much, Zedaph._ ’

And Zedaph presses himself against the headboard, if only to put a bit more distance between himself and Impulse, but the electric atmosphere around them doesn’t fade, as Impulse just moves closer, the kind smile on his face edging towards something different, but then the bed dips again and, this time, an arm slides itself between the headboard and Zedaph’s body, wrapping around his middle and pulling him against a hard chest. The smell of gunpowder and iron fills his nose and one look down is enough for Zedaph to take note of the dark red tunic and realise that Tango has gotten ahold of him, pulling him close, so that Zedaph is just shy of sitting in his lap. Impulse raises himself on his knees, the candles framing him in their dim orange light, leaving his eyes even darker than they’d seemed earlier as he focuses on Zedaph, and, before exchanging a look with Tango, he licks his lips. Zedaph feels like he is on the verge of hyperventilating. 

This, right here, is everything he’s been taught to avoid, taught to push aside, because he’s always been told to keep for himself ‘pure’ until the perfect political opportunity comes about in the form of a beneficial relationship, and yet, here Zedaph is, in the arms of strangers, well and truly on his way of offering himself up to these people simply because the fire lit within him won’t diminish unless he _does_ something about it. Shame is right there, alongside this newly found need, and Zedaph squirms in Tango’s arms because of it, especially as Impulse’s eyes harden. He grabs hold of the silk rope he’d been holding and, before Zedaph even knows what’s happening, his mask’s delicate string snaps as the porcelain is suddenly ripped off of his face, only for something smoother, finer in its design and delicate in its weaving, to take its place.

And Zedaph’s world goes dark.

Zedaph feel like an eternity passes in the second it takes him to figure out that Impulse has _blindfolded_ him, has wrapped a piece of silk over his eyes and is now tying it at the back of his head with steady, but attentive hands. Zedaph feels Tango chuckle behind him, the sound almost shockingly pleasant now that Zedaph has lost one of his senses, and it feels odd, to be deprived of his sight like this but, as Impulse pulls back, allowing a hand to linger and cup his cheek between long fingers, a thumb caressing his lower lip when Zedaph gasps under the ministrations offered with a tenderness that takes him by surprise. The touch on his lips and the vibrations of Tango’s laughter and then of his deep breaths feel like so much more, all of a sudden, and Zedaph can’t help but bring his hands in front of him, beginning to fiddle with his own fingers blindly once Impulse retreats fully.

‘I know you don’t have a very high status’, Impulse speaks clearly, his words as much a bucket of ice cold water thrown over him with the way they make him shiver, as much as they are refreshing gulps of air with their smooth and deep timbre, something too sharp to be just a smile audible in the tone of his voice,’But you have _connections_ in high places, don’t you?’

Zedaph is not sure where this is going, but he nods shakily as Tango wraps both arms around his corseted waist, purring as he, no doubt, feels the boning channels despite the heavy coat, what with the way his fingers skim over exactly where such the corset’s panels come together, and Zedaph wonders, for a second, if he should feel self-conscious about this carefully crafted image of social and aesthetic prestige falling apart beneath talented fingers that finish their journey at his hips, squeezing Zedaph just tightly enough to have him stutter on his next inhale.

‘Then, I take it...’, and Zedaph feels Impulse lean in closer, his breathing falling over Zedaph’s face like a cold whisper of wind on a heated summer day, ‘You’ve never _had_ to kneel before someone else, have you?’

The hands on his hips suddenly fall away, Tango shimmying Zedaph of off his lap carefully as Zedaph squirms with the heat that simple question, suddenly turned perverted by the mere context it is asked in, is uttered. Sheer stubbornness makes Zedaph want to keep his silence, to bite is own tongue and ignore the expectant silence coming from Impulse’s end, but he knows what Impulse _expects_ and, even if he’s only known these two for such a short amount of time, even if he’s literally _just_ stumbled into their world, Zedaph wants to be good for them.

He’s always tried to make everyone around him proud, always tried to do the right thing and, slowly, Zedaph is coming to terms with the fact that, maybe, this time, the right thing to do _is_ the wrong thing. 

Zedaph is aware that Impulse means something else by ‘kneeling’, he can tell by the tone, by the suggestion of it, but Zedaph is not entirely sure what he _is_ suggesting and that makes the humiliation he feels reach new heights which Zedaph embraces all too easily.

‘N-no… Never had to before’, he answers honestly and he can almost _hear_ Tango’s grin from somewhere behind him as he huffs out an amused breath. A hand rests on his shoulder and suddenly, he’s being slowly pushed off of the bed, another hand finding his arm and guiding him. Zedaph can only conclude that he’s still next to the bed when he’s helped to his feet, only for the hand on his arm to gently push him down until he is kneeling. He can hear movement and the shifting of fabric, but Zedaph isn’t sure what’s happening, is still left in the dark, literally, as his knees dig into the hard floor, as the person who had pushed him down hooks their thumb below his chin and raises his head. Something brushes against him on both sides and, with a startled gasp, Zedaph realises he’s been made to kneel between someone’s legs. Hot shame floods his cheeks and with the silk only covering his eyes, leaving him vulnerable, he can no longer hide it behind a mask. Tango chuckles above him and Zedaph comes to realise that he’s kneeling for _him_ , as his thumb brushes against the corner of his mouth, prompting another soft exhale.

‘So, Zedaph’, Impulse begins from somewhere further away, probably still seated on the bed, and just the thought of dark brown eyes on him makes Zedaph’s whole body shudder, for some reason, his thighs quivering from where waits on his knees, ‘What do you say, would you like to make Tango feel good?’

Zedaph thinks about it for a second and lets his head be tilted slightly as he feels Tango’s hand move to his hair, fingers gripping light blonde strands gently, thinks about what ‘making someone feel good’ means, when he is on his knees for them, but his imagination draws a blank. He knows some of the basics of what partners might do in bed, but he can only wonder what Impulse, who is clearly a bit more experienced, has in mind. Zedaph gulps and whispers out a low ‘I’d like to try?’

He hears no reply to that, but Tango stops petting his hair and Zedaph whines a bit at the loss, earning an amused, but soft chuckle from him. However, the air around the room seems to change a bit, as if everyone is holding their breath, and Zedaph knows he is, as they wait for what Impulse has to say next, seeing as he’s subtly taken over the leading role for whatever this is.

‘Tango is going to take his cock out now’, Impulse says, finally, his voice carefully neutral, leaving no room for argument, not that Zedaph would want to, but even the mere _words_ describing what is about to happen have Zedaph’s thoughts slowing to a halt, leaving him to gape slightly towards where he think Impulse is. The sound of laces being pulled through eyelets draws Zedaph’s attention, though, and, slowly, Zedaph connects the dots of what being this close to Tango’s crotch might mean, his heart hammering away in his chest. It’s terribly arousing and incredibly shameful, Zedaph thinks, but he _wants_ to see where this is going, _wants_ Impulse to keep talking, Gods, it almost feels like Zedaph _needs_ it.

‘And I want you to use your hand on it, Zedaph’, Impulse continues, voice somehow dropping even lower as Zedaph bites his lip and slowly, shyly, raises a hand, Tango guiding it with gentle fingers on Zedaph’s wrist until Zedaph finally finds his erection, because it is already hard and there’s something wet dripping down it, the flesh hot and heavy in his hand. Zedaph feels like his embarrassment is burning him from the inside out, but his curiosity and the fire that is slowly brought from embers to seething flames have him continuing. His grip around Tango is loose, but Zedacph can’t, and he swallows a sound that surely would have made him seem all too wanton, even considering the situation, he _can’t_ wrap his hand fully around Tango’s cock and that alone makes Zedaph tense up with something too sweet to be fear.

‘Good, that’s it, good boy’, the pleased tone of voice brings Zedaph back, even if his brain is still hyper focused on the cock in his hand, ‘Touch him. Move your hand up and down, just like that, _slowly._ ’

Tango’s fingers are still on his wrist as Zedaph begins, but they tighten around his hand in what he can only hope is pleasure, as Zedaph begins stroking him slowly, softly, as if the wrong movement could shatter this whole _filthy_ fantasy that Zedaph halfway prays isn’t real, because of the sheer shame it causes, waves of it rolling in his gut, but that he ardently hopes is real, because that very shame feels so hot inside him and Zedaph just wants _more_.

‘Tighten your grip, focus on the head’, Impulse advises in an almost nonchalant way and Zedaph does as he is told, hesitating for a bit before gripping Tango a bit more firmly and trying to touch the tip of his cock on every upstroke, which earns him a pleased hum, one that borders on a growl, from Tango, whose thighs Zedach can feel twitch, ‘How does he feel, Tango?’

Tango hisses slightly and bucks into Zedaph’s hand, to which Zedaph gasps, almost pulling back, but his nerves are on edge now, the tops of his cheeks and the tips of his ears hot as he digs his heels into the wooden planks he’s kneeling on, his legs starting to go numb with the position. Zedaph keeps moving his hand up and down, up and down, trying to find a rhythim, but Tango’s hips keep moving, thrusting between his fingers, which leads to Zedaph trying to go a bit faster, if only to see if that will satisfy him. Tango exhales loudly, settling down for a second, the hand on Zedaph’s wrist moving to the back of his neck, where he grips his hair again, this time less carefully, Zedaph wincing beneath the blindfold at the action.

‘He feels good, gettin’ the hang of it’, Tango finally says, and his voice sounds even raspier than before and Zedaph can’t help but perk up slightly at the praise, Tango’s words making his heart lurch in a way that has Zedaph’s blood running even hotter, close to boiling at this point, ‘But...’

Zedaph leans into the hand holding him by the scruff of his neck, gazing up at where he thinks Tango is, lips parted in an unspoken question as his hand slows down on Tango’s dick, precum making his grip that much more slippery, still.

‘But?’, Impulse asks and Tango pulls on Zedaph’s hair, moving his face closer to his cock with a sudden motion, which has Zedaph moaning, his grip on Tango faltering as the spikes of pain from where his hair is pulled zap through his body in a way that Zedaph think _shouldn’t_ feel this good.

’I wanna know what his mouth feels like’, and he doesn’t wait for a response, seemingly not as bound by Impulse’s commands as Zedaph himself feels, because Zedaph’s lips meet his dick in a way that takes Zedaph by surprise, a gasp being breathed out onto the leaking head.

‘Hm’, Impulse takes a second to think as Zedaph closes his eyes, even if it changes nothing, his world still dark around him, mouthing at the head of Tango’s cock, his hand slowly picking its stroking back up, mostly focused on the base of Tango’s cock this time, ‘Alright then. Open your mouth, Zedaph.’

Zedaph does, tongue slipping out to lick his own lips, his eyes snapping open behind the silk at the bitter taste of precum on them, but Tango sees his open mouth as an opportunity and doesn’t hesitate to shove himself inside Zedaph’s mouth, the warmth of him filling Zedaph up in a way that he did not expect. 

Tango’s cock is wide, stretching his lips as it goes in, and the bitterness of the precum is now not something Zedaph can avoid, but, oddly enough, Zedaph doesn’t mind, letting Tango move his head slightly forward with the fingers he has in his hair, Zedaph breathing through his nose as he does.

‘Good boy’, Impulse says again, and Zedaph just about melts, his hand going a bit limp where he is still gripping Tango, his back slouching slightly and a bit of saliva trickling from the corner of his lips. But Tango keeps moving forwards, until his dick almost meets the back of Zedaph’s throat, which makes Zedaph hiss around the length in his mouth, even as he tries to adjust to it.

‘Don’t use your teeth’, Impulse advises, warmly, darkly, and Zedaph tries not to, pulls his lips over his teeth, but he isn’t sure what to do, not when Tango groans above him, the sound _doing_ something to Zedaph as he takes whatever Tango gives him, ‘Try moving your tongue, he’ll _love_ it.’

Zedaph swirls his tongue on the underside of Tango’s cock clumsily, his breathing picking up as the heat slowly moves to his nether regions, all encompassing in its wake and leaving Zedaph a melted mess on the floor, which is why Zedaph sighs in something akin to relief when Tango takes charge, slowly thrusting into Zedaph’s mouth, rubbing against his tongue and pulling his hair as he directs Zedaph on how to move. Zedaph has never done this before and he feels like it shouldn’t turn him on, sucking another man off, being used like this, but it _does_.

‘Yeah, that’s so good, buttercup’, Tango groans, his hips picking up speed, but he is still careful not to push too far in, even as Zedaph feels his drool drip down his chin, his own erection now fully hard in his too tight trousers, the fingers of his free hand digging into his own thigh as the pressure increases with each passing second, ‘Suck it, just like that.’

Zedaph doesn’t want to admit that their praise affects him, but a mewl still escapes him, muffled by Tango’s dick moving inside his mouth, and Zedaph feels like he is just going to melt through the floor at any moment now, especially as Tango’s hips lose their rhythm, as the hand in his hair turns rough, moving Zedaph in time with his thrusts, so that Zedaph almost chokes on him.

‘He is amazing at this, isn’t he? How many people have you had fuck that mouth, hm?’, from what Zedaph can hear, eyesight still not available to him, Impulse is starting to lose that cold composure from earlier, even if he is just as in control as always, but Zedaph stutters an offended squeak around Tango’s cock. Truth be told, he’s never done something like this, nothing even _remotely_ close to this, but the implication that Zedaph would just go around sucking people off makes him want to give some sort of snappy reply, but the _thought_ of it has Zedaph’s head reeling with arousal that feels even dirtier, even _better_ than before. 

‘It’s a shame we can’t- Ah, it’s a shame we can’t hear him like this’, Tango grunts, bringing another hand down to Zedaph’s face, cupping his jaw and sliding a thumb over where he can feel the bulge of his own cock moving beneath Zedaph’s cheek with a sharp hiss.

‘Yeah, but I’ll bet he feels good. So hot and wet inside.’

Zedaph feels like he’s been set on fire, his lungs struggling with the way he pants as Tango keep thrusting in, but then there are hands on him.

He’s not sure how many people are touching, but Zedaph moans as they tug his coat off, the pearls and jewels clinking as it is put away, before those same hands work on his shirt, untying its laces and, when Tango doesn’t seem to want to pull away for even a second, groaning as he keeps using Zedaph’s mouth, they _rip_ it off of him. Maybe they can tell that it doesn’t look that expensive, but Zedaph still feels the slightest hint of perverted desire at the rough treatment. He moans around Tango, which prompts him to move even faster now, the head of his cock bumping against the back of Zedaph’s throat every so often, but Zedaph doesn’t care, even as he chokes on it, bringing both hands up in order to stroke Tango’s cock to the pace he wishes he could touch himself, his body trembling with want.

‘Leave that on’, Impulse orders, and Zedaph can only assume it’s the corset, but at least whoever is undressing him unties the laces and lets them trail over his heated back. The hands work on his trousers and pants next, but they’re particularly swift, stopping to touch naked skin as it comes into view, teasingly dragging nails and knuckles over his arms as they pull the rags of his shirt away and Zedaph _keens_.

It’s only once Zedaph is almost completely naked, safe for the, now, loosened corset, the heeled boots that are still tightly tied up to his knees, the heels of which are pushing against the floor as the tension in Zedaph’s body doesn’t seem to wane, and, of course, the silk blindfold, that Tango lets himself go, his thrusts turning wild, his cock going so deep that Zedaph can only sit there and take it, his hands no longer moving, just providing another grip for Tango to fuck into, trying to stop himself from choking and _it feels good, so good, Gods_ -

‘I’m gonna come’, Tango warns between gritted teeth as he fucks Zedaph’s mouth, his fingers so painful in his hair, the pleasure deriving from the sting and pull of it almost _too_ much for Zedaph, but Impulse hums and the sound makes Zedaph’s whole body tense up even more.

‘On his face. Dirty him up’, Impulse requests and maybe the long and almost aggressive moan Tango lets out next is an affirmative because, suddenly, he pulls out of Zedaph’s mouth, strings of drool still dripping between them and Zedaph has no idea what Tango is doing, because the hand on his face moves away, while the one at the back of his neck tilts his head up, having Zedaph gasp as it all happens, his own voice sounding raspy from all of the aggression of Tango’s thrusts and his own muffled moans, but he can hear wet sounds and a long moan from Tango.

‘Open your mouth for me again?’, Impulse quips in, the dangerous smile from before once again obvious in his tone, and Zedaph lets his mouth drop open, unsure of what exactly is going on, his cheeks flushed dark red and saliva dripping down his chin as Tango keep moaning above him.

And then Zedaph feels something wet land on his face. He flinches as he finally realises what it is that Tango is doing, but a whine is ripped right out of his chest as Tango’s grunts and growls echo around him, his head fuzzy with the pleasure that he feels even as he simply stands there and lets Tango paint his face with his come. Some hot strips of it land in his mouth, but Zedaph tries not to move until, after what feels like a small eternity, Tango breathes out slowly, stopping his movement as he takes a moment. Zedaph waits, not knowing what for, but trying to keep still nonetheless, panting loudly, come trickling down his face, and, as Tango lets go of his hair, Zedaph closes his mouth, which immediately reminds him of the come on his tongue. He is unsure what to do about it, but whilst the bitter taste doesn’t bother him much when he has a cock moving inside his mouth, now it almost feels too bitter, so Zedaph swallows it, licking his lips once he is done, his nerves still feeling like pinpricks of electricity that run through his shaking frame. Tango groans again.

‘Oh buttercup, did you swallow it?’, he asks in a wrecked tone and Zedaph doesn’t trust his voice, so he just nods, looking down at his lap timidly, which only leads to Tango growling again, sounding, for all the world, like a devastated man.

Then Tango is moving again, slowly standing up, as far as Zedaph can tell, and walking away. The hands that had undressed him return and carefully help him stand up as well, supporting him when his knees buckle. In all of his naked glory, Zedaph wants to at least pretend he has some dignity left and cover himself up, but the hands don’t let him, holding him tight.

‘You did so well, Zedaph, you were such a good boy, took it so beautifully’, Impulse praises him and Zedaph squirms in place, looking down and noting that Impulse’s voice still sounds like he is sitting a bit further away, still on the bed, maybe, and, as he is now, hard and needy and unable to even trust his own words to clarify any of that, Zedaph cannot deny that he is excited about what will happen next, ‘But I want to see if you can take _more_.’

Zedaph shudders as the words, spoken smoothly, a dark velvet against his already overwhelmed body, wash over him. Uncertainty over what ‘more’ might mean for him mixes with the curiosity of how far Impulse wants to push him, how far Zedaph can stray from the morals taught to him with harsh lessons and even harsher words and, as Zedaph comes to realise with a cold sort of shock, especially when compared to the heat of his arousal, he _wants_ more. Impulse doesn’t leave him pondering over his own conflicting feelings for much longer, addressing the person holding him, instead.

‘Tie him up, please?’

And Zedaph has to hold in a gasp in as the hands turn slightly rougher, pulling him away to the side, just a few steps, and he almost stumbles, but they keep him steady, or at least, that is until silk surrounds his wrists, pulling his arms above his head, the angle of which is almost uncomfortable, his back bending to accommodate. Zedaph can do nothing but moan at the tension around his joints, the weight of his own body being pulled and stretched with the silk ropes that raise him above the ground, his feet dangling ever so slightly.

‘That’s a pretty sight’, Tango whispers from somewhere, his voice sounding distant and not just in a physical way, the lazy slur in his words probably caused by his earlier orgasm as well. Zedaph tries to move, but the silk keeping him upright doesn’t give him a lot of leeway, even his breathing morphing into a sort of breathlessness that really doesn't help Zedaph's case when it comes to trying to hold back his ever climbing arousal, and, despite Zedaph trying to think about everything else, being seen as pretty is, somehow, a bigger turn on than he'd ever thought it might be. It doesn't help that Tango's next response to the state Zedaph finds himself in, squirming in place, the silks surrounding him shifting with his movements, blindfolded and trembling, his face still stained and flushed, is a low growl.

Zedaph opens his mouth, trying to say something, to give voice to a certain wish, _call me pretty again,_ **_please_ **, but his embarrassment is stronger than his warped needs, so he just squeezes his thighs together, trying to hide what he knows, at this point, is an erection of his own, but there's not much he can do, with his hands not accessible and even his feet off of the floor. One of those unknown hands hits the flesh of his flank with a soft smack and, after a startled breath, Zedaph goes completely still.

‘Be good’, Impulse warns next and Zedaph holds in a gasp when that same hand moves up his thigh to his hip, where their grips turns tighter, despite the nearly gentle caress of a thumb against the divet of his hip bone just beneath the edge of the corset, but Impulse’s deep voice still holds Zedaph’s attention like nothing else, the commanding tone entirely too persuasive.

‘C-can I… I want...’, Zedaph begins, but his throat hurts and his words come out weak and soft, not nearly loud enough to be understandable or seen as a proper response, Zedaph realises as Impulse clicks his tongue, so he clears his throat and tries again, ‘I want the blindfold… I w-want it off...’

Zedaph curses his own stuttering, but the thoughtfulness of the hum Impulse responds with being echoed by someone Zedaph is sure is Tango in a contemplative little chuckle steals Zedaph’s breath away and makes him go loose, or well, even _looser_ in his bindings, the hand on him creeping up towards a nipple, which is then being grabbed, slowly, careful fingers twisting the hardening bud in a way that Zedaph can feel building up the more the action continues. His heart is already hammering in his chest, but it speeds up a little at that.

‘I can take it off’, Impulse agrees, but doesn’t sound convinced and Zedaph swears on everything he holds dear that he’s never wanted to see someone's expression so badly before, because Zedaph can just imagine the slight furrow in Impulse’s brow, the twinkle in his dark eyes, the tender, but cutting tilt of his smile, and , somewhere further back, maybe sprawled across the bed in a crude imitation of Zedaph’s earlier position he can see Tango, whose hunger has subsided for the moment, but is slowly building up again just as Zedaph is being _torn down_.

‘He _does_ have beautiful eyes, Impulse’, Tango adds, still a bit soft, but if the words he chooses to use are any sort of hint, his rougher side is slowly building back itself up again, ready to take and to devour. Zedaph wouldn’t mind.

‘Yes, but can you take it like this just a bit longer?’

Impulse’s question has Zedaph’s brain attempting to work again, but it just feels like mush, pulsing with his own fantasy, with his own imagination, throbbing in the _pain_ so much prolonged arousal is causing within him, because whenever Zedaph had been aroused in the past, however few and far in between those occasions may have been, he’s also always taken care of those sorts of situations as quickly as he could, bringing himself over the edge and not even savouring it, as guilt always took precedence once the pleasure that felt too overwhelming to continue inflicting on himself, once he inevitably pulled his own hand away, but like this, Zedaph can savour it all so very slowly that it almost makes him go a bit misty eyed. It’s so good that it _hurts_. Or maybe, that’s just the fingers pinching his nipples pulling at the small nubs roughly, but expertly.

Zedaph just nods, then, and as a few seconds of no further comment or command from Impulse follow, Zedaph has to wonder if that might have been the wrong answer, but Impulse dispels those worries with a few simple sentences that turn Zedaph’s whole brain into a melted pile of nothing but desire.

‘We’ll take care of you. Can you fuck his thighs? Then we want him all for ourselves and you can go back to False.’

This is when Zedaph finally notices the way the room had been growing quieter as the night progressed, everyone else probably retreating to the side rooms as exhaustion got the better of them, and he doesn’t know who is touching him, he doesn't know who False is or what being left with Tango and Impulse, presumably, might mean for him, but Zedaph feels the manic energy of this whole situation rush over him, his overheated thoughts only keeping him on the impossibly thin edge between the humiliation that would bring him to his knees, were it not for the soft ropes, and the odd craving to _be good_. He comes to the conclusion that the person who’d been fondling him and whose hands are now slowly pulling away must be the only person here left other than Tango, Impulse and himself, but Zedaph cannot even begin wishing for them to stop touching him, not when the physical contact makes him tense up and sing with pleasure, not when Impulse speaks again after a whispered something that Zedaph thinks must have come from Tango.

‘What do you say, Stress?’

And then the person behind him, Stress, as Impulse had said, quips in with a voice that sounds soft and kind, her accent that of a noble, emphasised with something more heartfelt than the surface level politeness the nobility is known for.

‘Oh, it would be my pleasure, love’, she whispers in his ear and the gentle fingers return to the backs of his thighs, running short nails over his back, reaching his tailbone, where they stop for a second and simply put pressure on the tense muscles there. Zedaph just lets himself hang there uselessly, swaying slightly as he twitches with the attention.

‘How are you feeling, dear?’, Stress asks and, through the fog that’s taken over his mind, Zedaph barely even registers that she is addressing him as her hands continue their path upwards before turning and gripping his behind with the same care that she’s done everything up until now, not counting the shirt situation, and he shivers as his arse is spread open, warm breaths hitting his shoulder.

‘G-good...?’, Zedaph answers, unable to shake a last bit of uncertainty from his voice, and she moves closer then, a warm, clothed body pressing against his back, something colder rubbing against his lower back, and just like that, a question that Zedaph hadn’t even thought to ask receives its response in the form of what feels like a phallic shaft of cold glass leaving goosebumps in its trail as it drags over heated flesh.

‘I will oil your thighs up, so open your legs for me a little, love?’, Stress asks, then, and she pressed a kiss against his shoulder, the weight of it featherlight, just a comforting touch of lips which makes some of Zedaph’s tense muscles unlock.

‘Y-yeah’, he calls out, obeying her and gasping as he feels her wet hand breach the space between his sensitive thighs, the liquid on it making the motion that much smoother, the feeling of it that much more erotic.

She hums and her fingers brush against his perineum softly, the touch making Zedaph gasp and squeeze his thighs together, which earns him a pinch from her free hand on one of his arse cheeks and a click of her tongue, which is probably her nonverbal way of chastising him, so Zedaph tries to open his thighs again, digging his tiptoes, which barely even reach the floor if he pushes his legs down, into the ground beneath him, trying to stabilise himself as she retracts her hand.

‘Be good for Stress’, Impulse says and he sounds closer now, but Zedaph is no longer even sure which way is up and which is down as she retracts her hand and rubs her body against him, the high quality material still somewhat rough against his own naked frame, but then she kisses his shoulder again, lips traveling up his neck and breathing into his ear as the glass shaft moves lower and lower, making Zedaph shiver, even if he knows Stress won’t use it like _that_ , but he’s never gotten this far with someone before, and to even think that Stress will do… Whatever it is she will do to him when Zedaph is like this, tied up and all too eager is _electrifying_.

‘You ready, dear?’, she asks gently, and Zedaph all but nods, lips falling open with a gasp as the cold glass fills the wet space between his thighs all too well, brushing against his hole and the underside of his humiliatingly hard dick in a way that makes Zedaph’s eyes roll towards the back of his head behind his blindfold, in a way that sends shivers up and down his spine, in a way that has him drooling. Stress begins slowly, after receiving his approval, and moves her hips, her hands settling on his body, one holding him in place by the hip, the other moving further up, gripping his neck in a loose grip, fingers resting against his collarbones, gently squeezing the column of skin that glows with a light sheen of sweat.

‘That’s so pretty, mh-hm!’, Stress says behind him, her rhythm speeding up a little, the glass cock rubbing against him such a contrast temperature and texture wise, that Zedaph keens and lets his head fall back, soft hair that he presumes is Stress’ tickling the side of his jaw. Lips meet his cheeks in a kiss, then, and Zedaph arches his back, trying to grind down on the glass cock, which almost feels like it is already inside him, what with how close it moves to his hole, and the pressure within Zedaph build with each thrust of her hips, with each teasing drag against his own cock and his entrance, the oil being spread around easily and making the whole endeavour that much hotter and messier, some drops of it dripping down his thighs, probably hitting the floor as he is swayed in his silks.

The fact that he can’t see only makes Zedaph’s pleasure rise higher and higher, drowning him with the slowly mounting arousal, especially when Stress squeezes his throat just so, her nails leaving indents in the unmarked skin despite their bluntness, which only makes Zedaph moan.

‘Do you like this? ‘S it feel good, love?’, she ask and presses against him so that he bends forward a little bit, still only balanced by his hands being pulled high above his head and the hand on his hip, which moves to the dip of his waist, still slightly exaggerated due to the structuring of the corset, despite its looseness.

‘Yeah… Y-yeah, please, I want...’, Zedaph begins, but his voice sounds soft even to his own ears, so he chokes on a moan at a particularly rough thrust that has his whole cock twitching and his hole clenching painfully around nothing and tries again, ‘I’m going to… P-please, _more._ ’

And Stress slows down, instead, a sob that Zedaph almost doesn’t recognise as his own breaking the silence as the wet squelching sounds of the glass cock slipping between his thighs had made before stops, but the hand on his throat is still there and, in fact, it is tightening just that little bit more, which has Zedaph panting breathlessly as he trembles in Stress’ grasp.

‘Should I? Should I let you come?’, she asks and something else replaces the softness from before, her voice just as kind, but more teasing than anything, as she begins pulling out, only the very tip of the cock left between his shaking thighs, now warmer with Zedaph’s own body temperature and covered in what he knows is more than oil, as his own precum leaks from his aching dick and onto his thighs, but Zedaph wants, _needs_ more, so he tries to push back against Stress, but the silk ropes hold him fast and she stops him with the hand she has on his waist, squeezing his throat that much harder, the stars that appear in Zedaph’s vision a testimony of that.

' _I need it_ ’, is all Zedaph can say and a small laugh from Stress is his only warning as the glass cock slips away entirely, and, for a few seconds, he almost considers begging Stress to keep going, but then she pushes him even lower, the curve of his back even sharper like this, as the palm of her hand on his neck grips his hair instead and pulls his head back when she thrusts right back in.

A low groan reaches Zedaph’s ears as his whole body is rocked with the force of Stress suddenly unveiled strength, small grunst that sound as soft as her voice always does accompanying each thrust, but it’s like Zedaph’s entire brain singles that one groan out, identifying it as coming from Tango, but it isn’t Tango who speaks next, it’s _Impulse_ , his words low and firm and too arousing for Zedaph to comprehend, at first, especially as Stress keeps thrusting into him, each movement making his back arch even more, his mouth gaping with an almost continuous string of soft moans and half formed words that Zedaph can’t even bring himself to try and decipher escaping between quivering lips, despite being the one saying them.

‘It's alright Stress. You can make him come, he's been so good for us.’

And Stress coos at him, bring both hands to his waist as she fucks his thighs that much harder, the sound of skin slapping against his skin almost too much for Zedaph's poor, overworked imagination, his lack of sight only serving to make him feel that much more sensitive, the coil within him so close to snapping and shattering the building tension that Zedaph can't even breathe normally, wheezing and gasping through it all.

'He’s sure been a good boy, a _pretty_ boy for me', and there it is, that word again, the pride in Stress' tone entirely too much. Zedaph's body feels like it rests on the edge of his own sanity as the tension keeps building and then, suddenly, it _snaps_. Zedaph thinks he screams, his, up until then, overly tender senses going numb with pleasure as his releases paints his own power abdomen. And Stress keeps going, the sharp pain of overstimulation making Zedaph writhe beneath her soft hands, which create such a stark difference when compared to her continued rough fucking, that it has Zedaph twitching, not sure how much more he can take, his raw voice mouthing whatever pleas he finds the strength to utter.

But she does end up slowing down, eventually, with a kiss to Zedaph’s temple, almost as though it were an apology, and whispered praises, lovely nothings, that help soothe him where he feels as though his nerves have been scrapped raw. Zedaph almost feels like he should thank her for it when, distantly, he registers the silk around his wrists loosening and surprisingly strong arms catching him as he nearly stumbles to the floor with the numb feeling the euphora has left behind, his skin still raised with goosebumps all over and pinked by a blush that has, at this point, probably spread enough to cover most of his body, his face his chest, even his thighs, though the redness there might also be a result of something else, Zedaph thinks as he rubs his them together, taking note of the traces of oil and the stickiness he feels there, but it doesn’t bother him yet, not in his boneless, pleasantly buzzed state, not when Stress supports most of his weight as she helps him to the bed, or what Zedaph assumes is the bed, but whatever it is he falls into, it is soft and large and welcoming and Zedaph won’t complain about it. 

Stress let’s go of him and Zedaph lands face first, his limbs spread around him in an uncoordinated mess of arms, legs and exhaustion, but she pats his back, not unlike earlier, even if it _feels_ different, now, more caring, less teasing, like a gentle massage of muscles that Zedaph didn’t even know could be this relaxed, and giggles as he lets out what one might consider the call of a dying bird, even though it is muffled by the soft mattress that his face is pressed into. For once, the darkness caused by the blindfold might actually serve Zedaph well, as the lack of light leads his mind into the sleepy state that an orgasm always brings with it, at least, in his case, and Zedaph is confident this might just have been one of the most pleasurable experiences he’s had in his whole life, so he lets Stress know this by sinking even further into the bed with a pleased sigh.

‘Hope you enjoyed yourself, love. You were perfect tonight’, Stress whispers and it sounds like a farewell, so Zedaph raises his head from the sheets and tries to turn it to where he thinks her voice is, a small, tired smile on his face, Stress’ hand going to his head, where she ruffles his hair, next, and Zedaph does not have any special sort of bond with pets of the feline variety, but in this moment, if he had the ability to do so, he’d purr just like any old cat beneath her sweet ministrations.

‘Good night, guys’, she calls afterwards, presumably addressing Impulse and Tango, but Zedaph hears no verbal response from either, so he drops his head back to his previous face smushing area on the mattress, the footsteps that can only belong to Stress, as he hears no other person in the room and hasn’t done so in a while now, fading away, ending when a door creaks open before being shut slowly, as to not disturb the peaceful silence any further.

And then Zedaph remembers.

He remembers as someone’s hands busy themselves with the knot of the silk blindfold that rests at the back of his head, the graceful fingers quick and careful not to tug at any hairs that might have gotten caught in the fabric, the pressure that he hadn't even taken note of, seeing as he’d had quite a few more intriguing things to turn his attention to, lessening when the material falls away. He remembers as two pairs of arms pull him up, helping him sit upright, Zedaph’s eyes still closed against the light he can still see even through tightly shut eyelids. He remembers as one of those hands grips his chin between two fingers, turning his face this way and that, as though he were being examined, _admired_ , and Zedaph gasps as the words come back to him.

_Then we want him all for ourselves._

Impulse had said that, he’d said it just before Stress had started wrecking him with the glass cock that Zedaph is, by now, fully convinced will never compare to any sexual encounter he’s had before, self pleasuring no match against roughly moving hips and a warm person like Stress pushing him about as she takes him, even if she hadn’t _actually_ taken him, not technically, not entirely But something makes him think that Impulse’s plan is to turn that technicality into a reality and, with how fast his blood gets moving again, the tranquility of before dissipating, as though it had never even been there, so quickly that it makes him feel a little lightheaded, Zedaph cannot deny his own interest. And now it’s just them.

Zedaph finally opens his eyes, the low light of the almost fully melted candles too much when compared to his earlier lack of any and all sight and Zedaph finds himself blinking rapidly, a harsh shiver wracking through his frame when he meets a red gaze much closer than expected, Tango smiling in front of him, fully naked, _oh Gods_ , making Zedaph look up at him as he slowly pushes himself to sit on the bed, Tango’s grip never leaving him, as if he can’t stand to have his hands off of him for a single second, despite the contact being anything but erotic, for now. And Zedaph has to carefully keep his own eyes fixed on Tango's beautiful face, on his glistening fangs, on the red lips, which indicate that Tango must have gotten some action himself while Zedaph was busy being, well, _had_. The thought is nearly enough to reignite the fire of arousal from earlier, but the afterglow of his orgasm is still making him sluggish in taking the world around him in, so Zedaph tries to ignore it for now, as much as he can. 

Impulse comes into frame, as dressed as before, and Zedaph still feels his heart speed up at the sight of him. It’s then that he realises that they are both still wearing their masks and Zedaph feels almost disappointed, but he doesn’t say anything, just looking at the two of them with wide eyes. And then Tango leans in and licks a hot stripe across his cheek, gathering whatever had remained of his own come on Zedaph’s face with his tongue.

This time around, the arousal hits Zedaph like a slap, or so it feels like as he lets out a high-pitched sound that he won’t admit he’s made, if asked later, as Tango pushes him down onto the mattress, Zedaph’s legs falling open because of that same numbness from before, which is only now starting to recede, but Zedaph has no time to close them up again, because Tango takes the opportunity to fit himself between his thighs and push Zedaph down further into the mattress with an unexpected kiss. Zedaph’s eyes close almost on instinct, especially as Tango braces himself using his elbows on each side of Zedaph’s face and tilts his head, his tongue prodding at Zedaph’s closed lips as much as his sharp teeth are nipping at the edge of them, almost as though he were asking to be granted entrance, and Zedaph lets him in with a gasp, his whole world melting around him as Tango’s tongue enters his mouth, the bitter taste of it reminding Zedaph of way too many of the night's events for him to think straight anymore.

Tango explores his mouth like that, the wet and open-mouthed kiss slowly making Zedaph lose his mind, his own tongue trying to imitate the movements of Tango’s, but failing miserably as he is overwhelmed by the mere heat of the kiss, by the way Tango seems to let go even more once Zedaph decides to just let Tango have his fun, to remain there and take it, reciprocating the kiss with small moans and sharp breaths, because Tango _does_ , and he prompts Zedaph into tilting his head even further and he pulls back just enough to bite at Zedaph’s lips, earning himself a surprised yelp, which is then muffled by Tango going right back in, his tongue even more keen on caressing the inside of Zedaph’s mouth.

Zedaph raises his hands to a naked back and, almost reluctantly, allows his fingers to rest there, too afraid to hold onto Tango as he wishes to, but Tango doesn’t seem to mind and continues kissing him, pressing down on him even harder, using his body weight to grind against Zedaph. That is when Zedaph feels it. Something not unlike Stress’ glass contraption resting against the crook of his thigh, hard and wet and, unlike the cold glass, warm and made of flesh, flesh that makes Zedaph feel dangerously dizzy as it rubs against his lower abdomen with Tango’s motions.

‘That’s enough, Tango’, Impulse orders, suddenly, but maybe Tango doesn’t hear him, because not only does he not pull back and stop his lewd kiss, but rather, his attempts to make Zedaph lose whatever dignity he has left by bringing him over the edge with a simple kiss and a bit of friction turn even more energetic, more teeth and tongue being added into the kiss, a harder press of his hips making Zedaph gasp with everything he feels, now.

‘ _Tango’_ , Impulse says again and, maybe due to the way his voice goes absolutely _glacial_ , Tango listens. He slows down, first, releasing Zedaph’s lips and pulling himself back, staring down at Zedaph with ruddy cheeks, his pants a sign of his own breathlessness, but nowehere near as close to wheezing as Zedaph’s own breathing is. There’s this look of reluctance in Tango’s eyes, and Zedaph almost doesn’t want to let his hands fall away from his back where, without his own knowledge, he’d begun digging his nails in. But Impulse’s words hadn’t left any room for argument, so Zedaph lets go of Tango and, shakily, tries to sit back up again. It takes him a few attempts, but then he is looking at the two masked men with a hazy look in his eyes, the feeling of his earlier ecstasy and mounting pleasure not dwindling immediately, instead keeping Zedaph on his toes as red and brown eyes focus on him.

‘And you had to interrupt us just as things were getting good’, Tango grumbles, sounding all too grumpy about this turn of events, but his grin tells another story, even if his breaths aren’t quite back to their normal rhythm just yet. Zedaph would be a hypocrite to criticise him about that, though.

‘Maybe you can rut against him and come in your pants like a maiden another time, hm?’, Impulse asks, and despite the harsh edge of the tone, there’s an underlining care in the words, a good-natured teasing that makes Zedaph wonder about the relationship between the two, their affectionate glances at one another, the jabs they seem all too familiar making almost heartwarming, in an odd, comforting way. It’s something Zedaph wishes he had, but maybe that's just the hope given by those last few words, _another time_. That's not quite what grabs Zedaph’s attention, though, the ‘maiden’ comment making already red cheeks turn a glowing shade of crimson as Zedaph looks everywhere but at Tango and Impulse. They don’t seem to question it.

‘Yeah, yeah. Now, what say you we focus on the _issue_ at hand?’, Tango asks in a way that would almost be considered rude, where it not for the heat with which he looks back at Zedaph, he and Impulse sitting casually on the other side of the bed, suddenly seeming that much larger to Zedaph who feels like, with the way they focus on him, one of them naked and in no way trying to hide his arousal, they just about _loom_ over him, even from the short distance between them.

‘What will you...’, Zedaph swallows, his throat suddenly dry, ‘What next?’

And it is Impulse’s turn to grin and chuckle, his eyes narrowing with the smile that reaches his eyes, the glint in them making his gaze seem that much darker, that much hungrier, to Zedaph. Tango leans back, pose relaxed, as if he knows exactly what is about to happen, and Zedaph would bet that he does, so it is no surprise that Zedaph squirms just a little bit where he stands, fiddling with his own hands and looking at his own lap, pointedly ignoring his rapidly hardening cock.

‘Hands and knees, Zedaph’, Impulse commands, then, his voice slipping back into the one that he’d used earlier when he’d… When…

Zedaph obliges, if a bit shyly, crawling away from the middle of the bed to sit closer to them, supporting himself on his forearms and his knees, which sting slightly from their earlier endeavours. Tango licks his lips, which has Zedaph looking away, and moves off of the bed, only to walk around it and sit at Zedaph’s back, a hand sliding over the untied laces at the back of the corset, fingers trailing their loose criss-crossed pattern with a delicate touch, even as Zedaph tenses up, the position seeming even more embarrassing to him now, with Tango having a clear view of, well, everything. Zedaph brings his thighs closer together, but Tango hums thoughtfully. Distracted as he is, he doesn't even notice Impulse moving closer to his front, that is, until he is standing right in front of Zedaph, his trousers not doing the best of jobs at hiding the tent in them, so all Zedaph can do, as he realises how hard Impulse also is in his breeches, is take in a stuttering breath.

‘Will you let us use you for a bit, Zedaph?’, Impulse ask and, surprisingly enough, it doesn’t sound like the domineering tone he seems to enjoy using, instead, it is a question asked with the sort of affection that Zedaph is unused to, at least, in such a context, and he nearly gapes at Impulse, his mouth closing and opening as an overwhelmed rush of something that Zedaph can’t quite name, maybe adoration, and arousal wash over him, the waves of them hitting his resolve hard enough to almost crumble it down.

And so, at a loss for words, Zedaph does what he’s already done, multiple times, tonight already, and nods, purple eyes closing against the sting of tears, his shoulders drawing up as he expects them to just begin touching him already. But the cold reality is that they _don’t_.

It only takes a look at Impulse’s suddenly cold features for Zedaph to realise that his response hadn't been adequate, but if he doesn’t get the message at first, Tango’s gentle hand turning rough and gripping is hair in an unrelenting fist, pulling his head back, the all too sudden treatment having Zedaph letting out a moan that sits snuggly between pain and pleasure, sure does the job.

‘I want words, whore’, Impulse says, suddenly, and Zedaph nearly crumbles in on himself as the shame hits him together with the maddenig fire that Impulse calling him… _That_ ignites within him, and, with Zedaph on his hand and his knees for them, Tango sitting behind him and pulling his hair, Impulse in front of him, looking down at Zedaph coldly, he almost doesn't find it in him to protest.

Tango pulls on the strands in his hand even harder, then, wrenching Zedaph’s head at an almost uncomfortable angle, making his back arch, making him stick his own arse out in a humiliating way.

‘You’ve taken so much already’, Tango whispers with some sort of sadistic glee in his voice, bringing his erection back to Zedaph’s cheeks, rubbing against one of them almost frantically, ‘And it’s _now_ that you go speechless?’

His front meets Zedaph’s back as he leans over him, his cock slipping between his still oiled up cheeks, dragging a moan from Zedaph’s aching throat, and he nips at Zedaph’s ear, his hot breath already overwhelming him as he rubs against Zedaph’s entrance.

‘But I know you want more. You just play this timid game until you get a cock inside you, and then what? Then what, you whore?’

Tango’s other hand slides to his waist, the bruising grip with which he takes ahold of Zedaph making him gasp, the words not helping his thoughts move away from the boiling sea of need that Zedaph can’t escape from, not when the friction against his hole feels better than Zedaph could have ever expected. Maybe something _will_ , in fact, rival Stress’ glass cock, will most definitely surpass his own fingers, but Zedaph keeps him on edge, the head of his dick catching onto the rim but not pushing any further inside. Zedaph feels so much looser down there, the orgasm from earlier definitely helping with that, and the desperation he feels makes his arms shake where they support him. But then Tango suddenly lets go of his hair, only for Impulse’s hand to cup the back of his head in a way that brings him even closer to his crotch. Zedaph can barely even _breathe_ at this point, but Impulse doesn’t seem to care, the cold expression only rivaled in intensity by the lust in his eyes.

‘Then he cries and begs like a good little whore should’, Impulse responds to Tango, his other hand moving to undo his trousers with deft fingers, his cock almost slapping Zedaph in the fce as it slips out, long and hard and red at the tip in a way that makes Zedaph almost tremble with wantom need.

‘I _would_ like to hear him beg’, Tango admitrs, his cock finally moving from where it rests at Zedaph’s entrance, but instead of finally going in, Tango pulls away, only for both of his hands to grab his cheeks roughly, massaging the flesh in what can only be called aggressive kneading, spreading Zedaph open as he does, despite Zedaph trying to bring his legs closer together. His heart is beating so fast inside his chest that one would think he’d just gotten out of a rather physically taxing duel, but as both of their words had hinted at, the real ‘fight’ is only now about to begin. Zedaph feels like the excitement that instills in him will bring about his demise, but he still isn’t sure what to say, what to do other than sit there and take whatever they give, the idea of being an active participant having all of his sensibilities, aided by a lack of experience, flare up inside him. But Zedaph is also aware that they’re waiting for him to give them a go ahead, however subtle that question may be, given the crude words they’re using. Zedaph has never been more turned on in his whole life.

‘Please...’, he whispers, closing his eyes as he feels Impulse move in ever so slightly closer, the heat of of his cock almost tangible against Zedaph’s lips where it waits for permission, which Zedaph ardently wants to give, despite his not knowing what the rights words, what the right course of action would be right now.

‘Please what?’, Tango murmurs and moves his lips down, kissing his back and reaching the edge of the corset, which prompts him to bite at the skin showing just above it.

‘Please f-fuck… Please...’, and Zedaph blinks, purple meeting deep brown and the expectant face of Impulse above him, the set of his jaw the only giving away how much he is truly holding back right now. But Zedaph can’t say it. He _can’t_.

‘You think maybe he’ll speak for us if we make him?’, Tango asks with cruel little laugh that makes Zedaph shiver. He gazes at Impulse and at how the pensive look slowly morphs into careful blankness.

It is with a loud and surprised mewl from Zedaph that they push into him, no longer waiting for the humiliation Zedaph feels to crack further back, but rather fucking into him from both ends at once.

Zedaph’s whole body goes rigid with the unexpected penetration and he can’t even do anything as he feels Tango’s cock opening him up, the oil enough to make the slide that much easier. While Tango starts thrusting almost immediately, brushing against tight inner walls in a way that makes Zedaph want to _scream_ as the tension in his body rises with too much sudden pleasure which Zedaph doesn’t know how to handle. Impulse moves slowly, however, his long cock already deep enough to make Zedaph gag, despite not even being halfway sheathed inside Zedaph’s mouth, but with Impulse’s careful maneuvering and Zedaph’s clumsy control of his own breathing, he is slowly getting there.

The duality of the different rhythms the two of them set as they _use_ him only serves to make Zedaph’s erection drip precum onto the mattress below him, Tango’s thrusts rocking him forward, but Impulse's hand supporting his head as he fucks his mouth keeps him steady. Tears gather at the corners of his eyes and Zedaph looks back up at Impulse then, just as the tears spill, just as drool begins trailing down his chin, just as Tango's hips slow down slightly, the slower pace complimented by the much harder way his dick hammers into Zedaph, making him wince with the painful pleasure the slower fucking is making him feel.

‘Gods, he’s so beautiful like this’, Impulse groans, his own eyes closing as a particularly rough thrust makes Zedaph choke and flinch, ‘So good when he behaves, pretty whore.’

Tango growls behind him, not hesitating to dig his fingers into the soft flesh of Zedaph’s arse as he keep fucking into him. Zedaph moans around Impulse’s cock inside his throat because this only makes his pleasure spike, the vibrations of the muffled sounds around Impulse's cock making him throw his head back as he raises the tempo of his movements.

‘Fuck yeah, he was made for this. You were right, Impulse, so fucking right. Look at how well the whore takes our cocks, I bet he _loves_ it.’

They talk about him as though he weren’t there and Zedaph can’t even deny their words as Impulse begins earnestly fucking his throat, his balls slapping against Zedaph’s chin as he just allows this to happen, as he even uses his tongue to make Impulse feel better, just as Impulse himself had taught him, but it somehow makes Zedaph feel even better, just giving Impulse something to fuck, letting Impulse and Tango seek their own ends within his body, so close to spilling himself, to losing himself in the passion with which they take him apart, thrust by thrust, word by word, and Zedaph's cock remains untouched, dangling between his legs uselessly as Tango fucks in and out of him, in and out, not even attempting to make it look as though he were pleasuring Zedaph, just chasing his own orgasm, which makes Zedaph feel even more humiliated for being this close to the edge because of them merely using him, but that shame fuels the fire in his belly, it makes Zedaph tremble with the waves of overwhelmed sensation that he can do nothing against.

Impulse probably sees the signs, whether they be Zedaph’s tensing muscles or his muted whimpers, notices the way Zedaph is struggling to keep himself standing, because he starts moving faster, starts thrusting inside Zedaph throat almost wildly, groans filling the room around Zedaph as they all grow nearer and nearer to the edge.

‘Are you about to come?’, Impulse asks, suddenly, between gritted teeth, a hard look in his eyes when he slides out of Zedaoh’s mouth and breaks all form of contact, letting out a low growl as Zedaph gasps and pants, Tango continuing his fucking behind him, his hisp snapping against Zedaph's arse with roughness that pushes Zedaph forwards with each thrust, ripping small whines and cries out of him, the sounds no longer muffled by Impulse, but Zedaph is aware that an answer is expected of him, now that his mouth is free, he knows because Impulse’s eyes don’t leave him and his hands frame Zedaph's face and angle his face up so Zedaph can’t look away, even as he sobs and moans and twitches in Impulse’s grip.

‘Y-yes! Yes, oh my Gods- _Fuck_ ’, Zedaph whimpers and his face twists as Tango slows down behind him, changing his angle so that he keeps sliding against a spot inisde Zedaph that makes him jump. It feels too sensitive when compared to everything else and it makes everything feel even more intense, all of a sudden. Impulse brings one hand to his own cock, taking himself in his own hand and stroking the painful looking erection roughly, even as he keeps looking at Zedaph, even as Zedaph cries out for him.

‘Ask for permission, then’, Impulse says, simply, but his voice sounds too deep for it to be anything other than a cold command, one to be followed immediately, and Zedaph tries, he _tries_ to say what he think Impulse wants to hear, but Tango’s slower thursts go that much harder, still, bringing the fire that Zedaph doesn’t think he can stand for a second longer to new heights, Tango's hands moving to his waist, basically moving Zedaph on his dick, using him as nothing more than just- 

Just a _whore_.

‘Please, _please_ ’, Zedaph begs, then, and he knows he sounds needy, can hear it in his own voice, but he’d do anything to fall over the edge, to let the pleasure consume him, to have Tango finally let go and pound him into the bed and to have Impulse press back into his mouth because, and Zedaph wants to lie, wants to hide this perverted truth, to keep it from ever reaching the light of day, being used makes Zedaph feel even more on the edge than simply being touched, it brings his sensitivities to a whole new level. Impulse uses his thumb to carress his lower lip and Zedaph melts as he is being fucked into, melts as Impulse exhales slowly, once, twice, before not so carefully thrusting back inside.

Maybe it all happens at once, or maybe it is a chain reaction of sensation and lust and pleasure, but however it happens, Zedaph is gripped by the blinding white edges of his orgasm just as Impulse uses his mouth and throat as nothing more than a toy to be fucked into, just as Tango stops and grinds into Zedaph, so deep that Zedaph swears he can feel his cock up in his stomach, and Zedaph _breaks_. His brain feels like cotton, all of a sudden, his body going so tense that it hurts before becoming entirely limp, small jolts still coursing through him as Zedaph twtches and blubbers around Impulse’s cock until he hears a loud and groaned out moan before Impulse gives one last push, burying himself deep inside Zedaph's throat and coming just like that, forcing Zedaph to swallow between gasps and choked moans. Zedaph’s tears stream down his cheeks, but he can’t bring hismelf to mind them, especially as Tango does the opposite and pulls out, the heat of what can only be come landing across his back in messy stripes that make Zedaph moan as they bring forth the image of his own back and corset painted white with Tango’s release to his mind.

He realises that they’ve let go of him only when he collapses against the bed, drooling against the sheets and too tired to do more than twitch and let out these small, raspy breaths as his body still spasms with the aftershocks of what Zedaph still isn’t sure was an orgasm, the intenisty of it too much too proccess. Zedaph closes his eyes and waits like that, letting the pleasant numbness take hold of his limbs, enjoying the thoughtless state of mind that being fucked like this has brought about, enjoying the sore muscles and tender areas on his body that he knows, come morning, will turn into fully fledged bruises that Zedaph will mind quite a bit more, but, for now, he enjoys the afterglow. Then, after a bit of his consciousness returns to him, Zedaph feels arms wrap around him and, through the shadowy mist that’s taken over his brain, Zedaph can tell that he is being moved, but he is too happy to care about who, where and why, only snuggling closer to the warm chest of whoever is carrying him, though it’s only too easy to figure out that it is Tango when he laughs at Zedaph’s silly, affectionate gestures, the sound of it raspy and tired and satisfied with himself. Another hand that must belong to Impulse's holds Zedaph’s own and Zedaph squeezes Impulse’s fingers in what he hopes is a reassuring way, but he is too tired to actually makes sense of whatever Impulse says then, simply enjoying the pleasant purr of his voice as it soothes some of the remnants of tenseness out of his body like a particularly pleasant balm.

Then Zedaph finds himself tumbling into another bed, one that feels smaller, colder, one that must belong to one of the side rooms, but as Zedaph opens his eyes, he barely has time to take in the thin wooden columns that help support the small room's ceiling with the same sort of sharp arches he's seen in the hallways, if a bit less detailed and not made of stone, before two more people join him in bed, Impulse tucking Zedaph into his arms, his broad chest a welcome warmth against Zedaph’s naked back, _when had they removed the corset and his remaining articles of clothing off of him_ , Zedaph has to wonder, but he does not have the energy to ask, nor does he mind, and Impulse's arm is laid like a comforting weight on Zedaph’s waist. Tango settles behind Impulse, kissing at his neck with a wide, but exhausted looking grin stretched across his face, one hand laid over both of them, the fingers thrumming against Zedaph’s hip slowly, the touch almost like a particularly subtle massage, but Zedaph only lets himself be pulled closer, enjoying the affectionate touches of the two men who, just minutes earlier, were set on making Zedaph scream and beg and cry, but Zedaph enjoys this almost as much, as Impulse noses at his hair and kisses his forehead, Zedaph angling his head back only to allow this particularly gentle ministration.

Zedaph realises that, whenever they’d removed the corset, they must have also wiped him down, because he feels none of the stickiness that he knows sweat, tears and come should leave behind either on his face, his back or inside him, and the reminder of such careful attention administered to Zedaph in his weakened state almost makes him tear up again. Instead, Zedaph lays one of his own hands over Tango’s and turns his head slightly to nuzzle Impulse’s jaw. Zedaph smiles at the soft sighs behind him, his exhaustion so deep that, by now, he can barely even keep his eyes open, but he decides to do one last thing before actually going to bed in the arms of two strangers who, after tonight, are no longer _just_ strangers to Zedaph, and he reaches down as best as he can, hand patting the end of the mattress until his fingers skim over the fluffy material of a blanket. He pulls it over all three of them before cuddling back into Impulse’s arms and it is only then, warm and happy and sleepy as he is, that Zedph lets slumber take him.

* * *

‘Well, well, well’, a voice that sound entirely too smug for the grogginess Zedaph wakes up feeling echoes around the small room and rings in Zedaph’s ears like a badly timed alarm, but before Zedaph can snuggle further into the warmth of sheets and arms and soft breaths falling agaisnt his skin, Zedaph’s eyes snap open as the owener of the voice and the words finally click in his head. He shoots up in bed, then, a still half-asleep Impulse groaning and pulling at Zedaph’s arm to make him lay back down, and Zedaph wants to, Gods, how he wants to, especially when he notices that both his and Tango’s faces are completely unmasked, now, their beauty even more overwhelming with the golden stream of light flooding in through the only window of the room, but Zedaph looks towards the smaller room’s doorframe, red and gold instantly catching Zedaph’s attention as purple eyes meet an all too playful and all too familiar black gaze.

Grian takes in the scene of Zedaph laying in bed with two other people like a man who’d just found out that all of his conspiracies had been proven correct and Zedaph grabs the edge of the blanket and attempts to cover himslf up, a small squeak that Zedaph wishes didn’t come from him making Grian’s smile widen further.

‘I’d never have take you for a birthday sex kind of guy, Zed’, Grian admits with an overplayed shake of his head, fake disappointment seeping into his tone. A sleepy Tango murmurs something that sounds suspiciposuly similar to ‘what the fuck, people are sleeping here, man’, but Zedaph just gulps and tries to cover his whole body, including his face, with the limited amount of blanket he's managed to claim back from Impulse and Tango, but that only prompts the two of them into not so happily rousing from their own slumber, Tango sitting halfway up before deciding to plop back down and roll over, ending up dangerously close to the edge of the bed, all while Impulse stretches his arms over his head, his muscles shifting beneath his skin in a way that has Zedaph’s mouth watering, a blush already forming on his cheeks, before Grian clears his throat.

Zedaph halfway hides himself behind him when Impulse waves at Grian almost nonchalantly, as if having the king stumble upon the aftermath of an orgy is an everyday occurence for him, but then Zedaph rememebrs something about Grian _organising_ these meetings and his braind suddebly goes blank. That is, until Grian decides to have Zedaph’s shame return tenfold with a few simple words.

‘Though, I will say, losing your virginity like this, what a way to go!’

And as Grian cakcles loudly, his job here seemingly done as he waves at the three of them and closes the door behind him, shooting Zedaph one more knowing glance before he is out of the room, Zedaph only hides behind Impulse even further, hoping that he might just disappear if he presses himself tightly enough to his toned back, a shocked whisper of ‘wait, you’re a virgin’ from Impulse and a thump that Zedaph knows is Tango rolling right onto the floor with the shock of the new information coming to light the only responses Impulse and Tango manage to get out in the aftermath of Grian’s reveal. Zedaph groans and hides his face in his hands, still not leaving his hiding place behind Impulse.

But… Well, Grian hadn’t been _wrong_. Zedaph doesn’t think that he’d want to lose his virginity in any other way than he had last night, even if he were gven the chance.

It is after a late morning and early afternoon filled with conversations about their night together that Zedaph realises, he may not just want to meet up with Impulse and Tango again because they make him feel good, but also because something in his chest seems to bloom with the early seed of what Zedaph knows, given the care and attention it needs, will grow into affection like Zedaph has never felt before and Zedaph can’t be happier with that result, especially as it leads to a reprise of their night together, that is, until Grian barges in again, not bating an eyelash as he catches them in the middle of _things_ only to announce to them that they should probably go get some food.

All in all, Zedaph feels like his birthday has been a success. He is _happy_.

**Author's Note:**

> At first I just really wanted Zedaph to have a masked affair at a ball, then I had the brilliant idea of him stumbling upon an orgy and, because he's the man of the hour for the day, it being his birthday and whatnot, getting passed around and getting fucked up real good, with a focus on a certain duo of strangers that we all know and love.  
> TLDR; Yeah I'm still working on wrecking Zedaph as much as possible, he's my muse lmao.


End file.
